Death in the Yarra
by MissTempleton
Summary: Swimming, as everyone knows, is wonderfully healthy exercise. Except when Hugh Collins discovers rather gruesomely that it isn't.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was fighting a really ugly customer in a dark alley. He'd managed to trip the assailant and gain a slight advantage, but then his legs were unaccountably heavy as he ran to the light and reinforcements. He tripped, and could feel the thug dive on him from behind; he flung out an arm to fend him off, and promptly woke up.

It wasn't quite dark; which allowed him to establish that the violent dream had failed, in one very specific way, to cause a problem.

Mrs Robinson hadn't been smote in the face by his flailing arm, because her place in the marital bed was notably vacant.

In a normal household, this would have resulted perhaps in the assumption that the lady of the house had risen early, dressed quietly and begun her morning chores. The grates could, even as his consciousness reconnected tenuously with the new day, be enjoying a raking out and relaying with fresh kindling. Or perhaps the kettle was singing on its hob, as the day's first pot of tea was on its way to blessed creation.

This, however, was not a normal household, so the Inspector started by checking the room for signs of missing items.

Bathrobe: missing.

Jewellery: present and correct. Including, he noted, a plain gold wedding band and a very pretty "dearest" ring. He flattered himself that her departure from the room was, on this basis, planned rather than otherwise.

A brief peer through the curtains showed that there was in fact a reasonable amount of dawn light available; which led him to examine the drawers of Mrs Robinson's wardrobe.

Mystery solved.

A short personal debate ensued, which resulted in a shave and the donning of slacks, a long sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of canvas shoes. He picked up the largest towel he could find (he did, after almost a year of marital harmony and rather longer than that in non-marital confusion, know his wife quite well) and let himself quietly out of 221B The Esplanade. The stroll to the beach was short and bracing, and his quarry identified itself by a lazy crawl, fifty yards offshore.

He sat down on the folded towel, admired the rising sun and waited for the athlete to get bored; the first sign that he'd timed his arrival well was when she rolled over onto her back, crossed one ankle over the other and floated to admire the wide blue sky above. The buffeting of the waves appeared not to distress her in the slightest – this was a child of the ocean, happy in her ambience.

He, on the other hand, was rather interested in coffee, and put some Richmond childhood training to good use. A two-fingered whistle had the bather resume the upright position.

"HELLO, JACK" it shouted, and dived into a more energetic crawl shore-wards. The welcome embrace of cotton towelling was greeted as a duckling would its mother's wing.

A very cold nose got a kiss.

"What brought this on?"

"I swim sometimes. Why shouldn't I? Given where we are?"

"No reason not to, but equally, I'm looking for a reason not to be inhaling some of that Turkish coffee you're so fond of instead of this healthy but really rather bracing sea air. Can we …?"

The Honourable Phryne Fisher was apparently completely fine with the idea of coffee, a fry up and a gasper, which might rather reduce the beneficial events of the early morning exertions, but all those present were too polite to point out the anomaly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I feel compelled to ask, Phryne – was there anything in particular that brought on the desire to swim today?"

The usual rule of No Talking At Breakfast having definitely been shelved by swimming, and that morning's _Argus_ being more than usually bereft of actual news, Jack felt fairly confident in raising the question.

"Ask away, Jack, but ask your Constable, not me. He's the one who's caught the bug lately – in fact, I think he's been dragging some of his young boxers into the briny as well. I just woke up a bit early and thought it might be quite nice to see the sun come up over the sea. Which it was."

The idea of Mrs Robinson having any of her behaviour dictated by Senior Constable Collins was so unusual – and frankly, slightly alarming – that it was the first question on the Inspector's lips when he arrived at Melbourne's City South Police Station that morning.

"Yes, sir," he said, happily and confidently. Which was even more worrying.

"I was telling Miss Fisher just the other day how I've been training with some of the lads from the gymnasium to do the Yarra Swim."

Light began to dawn. It wasn't exactly a calming and relaxing light, but it did at least provide information, and the detective in Jack appreciated that enormously.

"The Three Mile Race?"

"Ha, well, we're going to be happy just to finish, but yes, sir. It's pretty popular this year – over five hundred people entered, I hear. The lads are really excited about it."

Jack did his best to nod approvingly and escaped to his office. The idea of leaping into the Yarra to swim three miles alongside four hundred and ninety-nine other souls didn't rank highly in his list of must-do activities but Hugh Collins' work at the gymnasium was, in Jack's view, little short of saintly. Finding ways for the youths of City South precinct to expend their energy that didn't involve someone ending in the cells had been Hugh's incentive in working at the gym, and in large part it had worked; in fact, it had been a significant contribution to Jack's argument in securing Hugh's recent promotion that had allowed the young Constable to marry Phryne's assistant Dot.

The odd part was that Collins didn't regard his work at the gym as anything special; and the fact that, though no more than a capable swimmer, he'd decided to engage his lads in the Yarra Three Mile Race, was almost certainly just evidence of his attempt to reduce the number of annual drownings.

After some involuntary head-scratching, the Inspector gave up and reverted to the day job.

Miss Fisher, meanwhile, was disturbed at her bath by a tap on the door.

"In the bath, Mr B, can it wait?" she called.

"Apologies, Miss, there is a Mrs Jackson at the door. She confirms that she has no appointment, and wonders whether she might be able to see you for a few minutes?"

Swallowing a curse – there was something particularly enjoyable about immersing oneself in an aromatic bath with the righteous knowledge of exertion endured – Phryne stood and reached for the towel.

"Twenty minutes, Mr B, and we'll need coffee. Well, I will, anyway."

"Very good, Miss."

In the event it was only a little over fifteen minutes before Miss Fisher descended to the parlour and greeted her guest.

Mrs Jackson was, it was immediately obvious, rich. She was also very, very upset. The coffee cup that she was nursing rattled against the saucer every time she took a sip, and eventually Phryne removed it firmly from the woman's hands and set it on the table before her.

"How can I help, Mrs Jackson?"

There was a sniff, and the decorous employment of a lace-edged handkerchief.

"It's my husband, Miss Fisher. Everyone says he's run away with another woman, and I need you to find him so that I can prove he didn't."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Phryne sighed inwardly. That was the trouble with being a Lady Detective – she tended to find that other ladies regarded her as a soft touch for a sob story, and assumed that she shared their unshakeable faith in their own life partner's honourable nature. As she'd so far been proved right not to share said faith, every time (except in her own personal experience that she refused to judge on the same, or indeed any measure), her jaundiced impression was understandable.

"How long has he been missing, Mrs Jackson?"

"Almost two weeks now. We had gone for a family picnic by the Yarra – near Dights Falls. Not just the four of us – we have two children – but William's mother and brother had come too. We often do things together," she said eagerly. Phryne decided it wouldn't be tactful to query the tense used. "William had gone for a walk downstream a bit, and I didn't think twice about it until we started to pack up to go home and he wasn't there. I sent Charles – that's his brother – to fetch him, and he came back to say that William had vanished."

"Could he not just have fallen in the river?" asked Phryne reasonably.

"There wasn't any sign anywhere on the bank of a slip, or anything. And he's a pretty good swimmer. And surely, if he'd hit his head or something and drowned, by now he'd have shown up?"

All entirely admissible arguments.

"So … why do people think he's run off with someone?"

This was better, she thought, as she watched Mrs Jackson react. This was plain anger – albeit not with her husband.

"There were … things … found in his office. When Charles went in on the Monday." Her voice trailed away again, impetus lost, and her hands fidgeted.

"What kind of ... things?" asked Phryne, mystified.

"A woman's scarf, hanging underneath his coat on the back of the door. A train timetable with a particular train ringed. And ... letters."

"From a woman?"

"She just signed herself Anna. They were addressed to ... to 'My darling Bill'. That's not him," she said waspishly. "He has always been William. He hates it when people try to shorten his name."

"Do you have the letters?"

"Yes. I thought about burning them – Charles was going to – but they still felt like a link to him, even if it was a horrid one." She reached into her bag, and then paused, looking up at Phryne.

"So, will you do it? Will you find him?"

Phryne sighed.

"You have to accept that you might not get the answer you want, Mrs Jackson. This thing that you find so hard to believe might well be exactly what happened."

The other woman shook her head firmly.

"The only thing I'm certain of is that it's not another woman. And that being the case, we all deserve to know the truth, Miss Fisher – me, Charles, the children – especially the children."

Phryne stood, and held her hand out for the letters, placing them on the table between them; then escorted the rather more composed Mrs Jackson to the door. A liveried chauffeur was waiting outside.

"I will start at his office," said Phryne. Mrs Jackson nodded, and gave the Collins Street address.

"Wait to hear from me. And I make no promises."

Mrs Jackson returned her gaze steadily.

"I don't need you to. I just want to know what has happened to him. You will be cynical, but I can honestly tell you, Miss Fisher – William and I love one another, and he would not have done this awful thing."

Phryne closed the door and went to the telephone.

"Dot? It's me. We've got a case. How soon can you be ready to leave?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

When Fisher & Williams, Inc, drew up outside the offices of Jackson Construction in Miss Fisher's shiny, red Hispano-Suiza, their plan of attack was already drawn up. Introducing themselves to the receptionist, they made their way to the office of William Jackson, at which point they split up: Phryne engaged the secretary's services to gain access to the inner sanctum, presently occupied by Charles Jackson; Dorothy hung back and waited for the secretary to emerge.

"Mr Jackson? Thank you for seeing me without an appointment." Phryne stuck out her hand for him to shake, and then presented her card with the other. "My colleague, Miss Williams and I have been engaged by your sister-in-law to look into Mr William Jackson's disappearance."

The portly gentleman on the other side of the desk, advancing prematurely to middle age with the assistance of (Phryne guessed) a taste for fatty foods and fine wines, pursed his lips and shook his head sorrowfully.

"Poor, dear Genevieve. If only she could accept what is so very plain to see," he said.

Phryne shrugged. "I confess, Mr Jackson, my reaction when I first heard the story was much the same as yours. However, our client has engaged us to investigate, and investigate we therefore must. You were with the family on the day William disappeared?"

He nodded. "We often do things together. William tried to get our mother out of the house as much as possible – her health is failing – so I was often wheeled out to help either with her or with the children."

"And there was no sign of him when you went to fetch him at the end of the afternoon?"

"None. It was that which made me decide that he must have deliberately arranged it in this way – to disappear when only the family were aware."

It was an angle Phryne hadn't previously considered but it made a kind of sense.

"It seems odd that no-one had any suspicion of his affair before he disappeared," mused Phryne. "It was you who found the clues, I gather?"

"Indeed. I came in here on the Monday morning to try and find the paperwork for our latest deals, and the first thing I found in his desk drawer was the bundle of letters. Have you seen them?"

"I have," grimaced Phryne. "Not the most edifying read."

"Nauseating" agreed Charles. "A greater contrast with Genevieve would be hard to imagine – although perhaps that was the attraction."

Phryne decided to change the subject. "You said there were some deals going on. Is the business ... healthy?"

He smiled. "Very much so – and about to become even healthier. We've traditionally been builders of new houses, but our latest venture is a development to create apartments from an existing building in South Yarra. We're going to make a dozen properties out of six."

Phryne attempted a smile. _Shoeboxes, I'll be bound_ she thought. "Who owns the company?"

"We both do. Well, the three of us, really, but Genevieve is more of a sleeping partner. William and I each have forty percent of the shares and Genevieve has the rest."

"I see." Phryne commented. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr Jackson." She stood to walk to the door, and her eye was caught by a picture on the wall. Two men, one tall, the other short – a younger version of the man before her – were ceremonially cutting a ribbon. Both had one hand on the cutting knife and the other raised in a victorious wave. She glanced back.

"Is this William?" she asked, and turned to look more closely at the picture. There was little resemblance between the two men. Her eye was caught by the hand of the taller one. "Is there something wrong with his hand?"

Charles strolled over to stand by her. "Yes, that's him. That was our first major development. And well spotted – William lost half of his little finger in an accident on site. He would insist on doing all the jobs at least once, and the chisel proved sharper than he expected. That was one time he definitely regretted his enthusiasm for the job!"

As Phryne opened the office door, both Dot and the secretary glanced up guiltily. "Only me, Miss Williams!" she carolled cheerfully. "Are you ready to go?"

Dot smiled up at her. "I think so. Thank you very much for your time, Miss Battersby, you've been _most_ helpful."

No words were spoken by either sleuth as they descended to the car, but once they were ensconced, Phryne turned to Dot.

"That looked like it went well – what did you get?" she asked eagerly, pushing the starter.

Dot grinned.

"There's one person who agrees with our client, Miss. Miss Battersby doesn't believe it about the affair either."

"Well, they do say that no man is a hero to his valet – I expect it's pretty tough to pull the wool over his secretary's eyes too," mused Phryne as she slipped the Hispano neatly through a gap between two delivery lorries. It was a testament Dot's experience that she barely even closed her eyes.

"Absolutely, Miss. And the other point she made was that she couldn't actually work out when this supposed affair was taking place. She always knew where he was, and she's quite certain there weren't any assignations in hotel rooms. When I asked her, straight out, whether she thought he'd been having an affair, she simply said, 'When?' and showed me his diary."

Phryne tilted her head in line with the steering wheel as they screeched around a corner.

"Good work, Dot – but it's made our job harder."

She turned to face Dot directly, regardless of the speed at which they were overtaking the traffic on the road in front of them. Dot gulped.

"If he's not with this mysterious Anna, Dot – where on earth can he be? And why is someone trying to make the world think he's run off with another woman?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The atmosphere at the start of the Three Mile Race was as good humoured and chaotic as a carnival. The swimmers assembling at Twickenham found themselves the object of thousands of spectators' attention, and the start for each group had to be staggered to allow for the sheer number of men – and a few women – entering the water.

The swimming was, Hugh found, only a small part of the challenge. The turbulence created by several hundred people all trying to propel themselves as fast as possible downriver at the same time made it difficult to achieve a steady stroke, and sometimes even to breathe.

Just as he was starting to get into an even rhythm, having allowed the main pack to open up a few metres' lead that made all the difference to his ability to swim, he encountered a new swimmer who seemed to have appeared from nowhere; the head bobbed up just ahead of him and the man managed to position himself perfectly for Hugh to slap him hard on the shoulder on his next stroke. The pressure drove him back underwater, and Hugh immediately stopped to make sure he'd not injured the man in some way.

When his fellow swimmer's head reappeared, though, it was obvious that he was feeling no pain whatsoever. The deterioration of the tissues of his face, the staring eyes and the rictus grin made it gruesomely plain that this was a man who had not felt any sensation for quite some time.

Hugh retched. Then, gingerly pushing the body with one hand and swimming with the other, drew them both towards the bank. A group of office workers had gathered there to watch the race, and one of them noticed the disturbance, brow furrowing. Hugh beckoned him over.

"I'm Senior Constable Hugh Collins of the Melbourne Police force, though you'll have to take my word for that right now. Please, as quietly as possible, can you get a couple of your friends to find a blanket or a tarpaulin and bring it to me here, and go yourself to place a telephone call to City South Police Station, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson? This person's died, and not recently, and I want to get the body dealt with, without causing a riot. Can you do that?"

The man took a glance at the body and then averted his eyes hastily.

"Yeah, no worries." He scrambled back up the bank to speak to his friends, and then, with a final look back at Hugh and his ugly burden, started to push his way through the crowds to the nearest building.

The next twenty minutes tested Hugh Collins' endurance to the limit. Avoiding drawing undue attention to the presence of a decaying corpse in the Yarra during the Three Mile Race was almost impossible; his co-opted assistants were willing but the task of removing it was only for those of stout constitution and Hugh quickly gave up the attempt. After all, a man who'd decided his role in life was to deliver the mail in an insurance brokerage was hardly going to leap at the chance to scoop a partially-decomposed dead body into a blanket, and said youth had to disappear into the bushes more than once. Hugh eventually had to be content with draping the blanket over the body and waiting with it in the chilly water.

When Jack eventually struggled down the slope to join him, two other constables and a deputation from the coroner's office in tow, Hugh was cold, weary and at the end of his patience; Jack took one look at him, took off his own raincoat and threw it around the other man's shoulders and instructed him to return to the police car and await further orders. It was a testament to the challenge Hugh had faced that for once he made no attempt to argue for a place in the investigative team.

He did, however, when Jack joined him in the car a little later, ask if they could drive to the finish line at Princes Bridge.

"My lads'll be there, and they'll be worried if I don't show, sir," he explained briefly through teeth which had finally stopped chattering.

Wordlessly, Jack put the car into gear and did as his Constable asked. Mercifully, the support team from the gymnasium were easily found, and were carrying towels and clothes for their swimmers, so as well as ending his team's concerns, Hugh was able to change into dry things.

He rather apologetically handed Jack back his raincoat – the Inspector took one look at the sodden rag and flung it on the back seat of the car. Then he turned to his Constable.

"Well done, Collins. I hope you never have to go through something like that again, but I'm pleased with the way you handled it."

"Th-thank you, sir," he replied bashfully. "Er … should we be getting along to the morgue?"

The Inspector agreed that they should, and decided to make the Herculean task of extracting the police car from the melee at the finish line by sounding its emergency bells.

It might not be a Hispano, he reflected, but he'd put good money on his ability to reach the morgue that day a lot more quickly than his wife would have done.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Dinner at 221B that evening was less riotous than usual; both the resident sleuths were preoccupied with the day's events, and it took three goes for Mr Butler to get them to agree to take coffee in the parlour.

"Jack?"

"Hmmn?"

"Help. I'm stuck."

He looked up at that. The Honourable Phryne Fisher admitting she couldn't manage a problem? A quick glance out of the uncurtained window confirmed that the moon was not, in fact, blue.

He smiled and shrugged. "Do you know what? So am I. What's your problem?"

She put down her coffee cup and came over to sit on him. Saint that he was, he simply uncrossed his legs and held out his arms; not all Detective Inspectors, she was sure, were so amenable to being treated as Part of the Furniture.

"I've got a missing person, and at first I was cynical; I assumed he'd just forsaken his wife to run off with a chorus girl."

"The old story."

"The very, very old, utterly sordid and boring story, yes. But I'm starting to think that his wife's faith in him isn't misplaced."

He broke off from his detailed examination of her collar bone to look her in the eye.

"A faithful husband?"

She smirked. "I believe it can happen. Not often, mind you."

Then squeaked, and recalled that it wasn't a good idea to tease someone who knew all one's ticklish spots.

"Anyway, if he _hasn't_ been unfaithful, I'm rather at a loss for where to look next."

He started tracing the other collar bone.

"Where was he last seen?"

"A family picnic by the Yarra, a couple of weeks ago."

He almost laughed.

"The Yarra seems to be today's theme," he commented.

She looked down, confused. Then her brow cleared.

"Oh, of course, it was the race today wasn't it? How did Hugh get on?"

"He didn't finish – but no fault of his own. Ended up having to do some very unpleasant police work instead of completing the swim, poor bloke."

"Oh?"

"Senior Constable Collins managed to be the one to find a dead body in among all the swimmers," he said laconically.

Phryne winced. "Poor Hugh! Did one of the racers drown? How awful."

"Not one of the racers, no," he corrected her. "That's my problem. Lying on a slab in the morgue is a body which Mac thinks is definitely a man, was probably middle aged, and has been decomposing fairly enthusiastically. We think it was the turbulence of the race that disturbed the body and brought it to the surface."

Phryne screwed up her face. "I do adore your choice of after-dinner repartee, darling. Couldn't you have picked something a little less grisly?"

"You did ask," he pointed out. "Anyway, there's absolutely nothing to help us work out who this chap is. No distinctive dental work, no operative scars – or at least, none that Mac can still trace. The fishes have even started – sorry – dining on him."

" _Jack, enough!"_ she shrieked, as he grabbed one of her hands and nipped one of her fingers playfully between his teeth.

Then her voice changed.

"Jack … hang on. Are you telling me that part of one of his fingers is missing?"

He caught the suddenly intent tone and swallowed his laughter. "Are you sure you want to hear this? Okay, yes."

"Was it the tip of the little finger of his left hand?"

All urge to laugh left him completely.

"That's right. How on earth could you possibly know that?"

"Because, Jack, I think there is every possibility that your dead body and my missing person are one and the same."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"The part I don't understand," complained Phryne as she sat in as docile a manner as she could manage in the passenger seat of her own car the following morning, "is what happened to his clothes."

"The part I don't understand," riposted Jack, "is how he managed to travel about six or seven miles downstream unnoticed."

They fell silent for a moment, contemplating each other's problems.

"It's been two weeks," offered Phryne. "Surely long enough to drift that far?"

They both had to admit that the clothes question was more taxing. Jack made up his mind that he would have to go back to have another look at the picnic location. Phryne slanted a glance at him under her lashes and resolved that he wouldn't be allowed to go back to the picnic spot without her.

He pulled up outside the morgue, where Dr Elizabeth Macmillan was waiting.

"Mr and Mrs Robinson, how lovely to see you," she greeted them sardonically.

Phryne grinned. "This isn't a social call, Mac. How did you get on?"

Mac led the way into the building and through to the room where the body was lying.

"I think you're spot on, Phryne – the physical description was a good match, and we've sourced Mr Jackson's dental records. Not a lot of work, but what there is matches. And given how warm it's been, the timing of his disappearance is commensurate with the degree of deterioration of the body in fresh water."

Jack lifted the sheet over the body's face to glance underneath, regretted the decision immediately and swiftly replaced it. "Now that we know there are suspicious circumstances, Mac, were there any signs of injury?"

She shook her head. "It's not easy at this late stage, but it still looks like a simple drowning. There are no other injuries, apart from the odd slight scrape that could just as easily have come from the journey downriver."

There was a pause as all three of them gazed at the shrouded body, as though willing it to sit up and explain how it had met its end. Then Phryne shook her head briskly.

"We'll get nothing more here. Thanks, Mac." She turned to Jack. "Inspector, I think I need to break the news to my client that she was right, but only in a very unpleasant sense."

He grimaced and nodded. "Agreed – I'll come with you."

They found Mrs Jackson at home and alone; her face lit when she saw Phryne, but being introduced to the Detective Inspector caused her brow to furrow, and she gestured them to sit with a hand that was not quite steady.

"Mrs Jackson," began Phryne gently, "I have found your husband, and your suspicion was correct; however, I am afraid I have to tell you that your husband is dead."

The woman paled; her hand went to her mouth and her eyes filled with silent tears.

"What … how …?" came the disjointed response. Jack took up the tale.

"A body was retrieved from the Yarra yesterday, Mrs Jackson. Although it was difficult to establish an identity because of the amount of time it had been in the water, there were enough distinguishing features for us to be certain that it is your late husband, who appears to have drowned."

Spotting a drinks tray in a corner of the room, Phryne poured a measure of brandy and pressed it into the Mrs Jackson's trembling fingers. She sipped a little, shuddered, but her face regained a little of its colour.

"Mrs Jackson … although your husband's death appears to have been entirely natural, there are one or two questions on which we'd like to satisfy ourselves. We'd like to go and have another look at the place where he disappeared – do you think you could show us on a map where you had your picnic?" asked Phryne.

"The picnic. Yes, yes of course. Oh! Charles! Someone will have to tell Charles. The company … oh, no."

Jack rushed to assuage her concerns. "Please don't worry, Mrs Jackson, we will take care of informing Charles Jackson of his brother's death."

"And I'm sure he'll be able to carry on looking after his business," interjected Phryne comfortingly.

Mrs Jackson looked up at her. "But it's not his. Not now."

The sleuths were both startled. "Whatever do you mean, Mrs Jackson?" asked Phryne.

"Our wills are very simple, Miss Fisher – we just left everything to each other," the widow explained, sipping the brandy more steadily now. "William's share in the company comes to me."

"And … will you become involved in running it?" asked Jack.

She shuddered. "No. I couldn't. But I can't let Charles run it either."

"Why not?" asked Phryne curiously. "He seemed to have a pretty firm grasp of the tiller when I interviewed him."

"He does; but he's steering that tiller firmly in the wrong direction," answered Mrs Jackson. "William was always very clear – Jackson Construction is about quality. It's everything the company stands for, and the reason our houses sell so well. Charles wanted to move into conversions. William explained it to me so very often – they're more profitable, and quicker to do – but the results aren't anything like what our company represents. In fact, if we were to stray too far down that line, there's every chance that our main business would suffer by association."

"So … what will you do?" asked Jack.

"Sell," she replied firmly. "One of William's closest friends is Ted Dunstone – they've competed for years, but they see eye to eye. Ted will give me a good price for my shareholding – or most of it, I might keep a token percentage for the children – and run the company in the way William would have wanted."

"It doesn't sound as though Mr Charles will be very happy with that outcome," mused Jack.

She gave a wintry smile. "I'm sure he won't, Inspector; but he doesn't control the company." Then she sat up a little straighter, and looked at them both.

"I've lost William. I'm not about to stand by and watch everything he stood for be thrown away. Now, do you have that map?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

A call to City South before they left the Jackson residence had Hugh Collins setting out in a police car to meet them at the picnic site, so there were three pairs of eyes available for the search of the area. Spreading out, Collins picked through the grassy slope, while Jack edged along the river bank and Phryne took a line between them. The water, so far upstream from the city centre, was relatively clear and Jack found a long stick to probe the depths.

It didn't take long, in the event; shoving his stick under an overhanging bush, Jack dislodged a heavy bundle; calling to the others, he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and dragged his prize up onto the shore. It was indeed a bundle of clothes, with the sleeves of the jacket and shirt knotted together to secure the rest, and a rock at the centre to weight the whole thing.

Phryne felt gingerly in the pockets of the jacket, and pulled out a wallet. The contents were ruined with water, but the wallet itself bore a gold monogram with the initials "W.J.".

"So, Jack," she remarked. "We have one person who was sent looking for William Jackson and claimed he couldn't find him, and who then also claimed to discover several pieces of evidence that the man had absconded with another woman."

He nodded and turned to his Constable. "Collins, you and I are going to go and invite Charles Jackson to have a little chat with us at the station."

He rolled his eyes and forestalled the next remark. "Yes, Miss Fisher, you may attend."

She drove herself in the Hispano and was waiting impatiently at the station when Jack and Hugh arrived with a thoroughly angry and indignant Charles Jackson. Being escorted to an interview room and seated at the table didn't cause his temper to abate one whit.

"Could one of you please have the basic courtesy to explain to me why I'm here?" he pronounced cuttingly.

"I've done that, Mr Jackson," said Jack calmly. "We have some more questions about the evidence you found in relation to your brother's disappearance."

"What more can I tell you?" he asked impatiently. "Letters, a scarf, a train timetable. You've seen them all by now, I'm sure."

"The thing is, Mr Jackson," said Phryne sweetly, "there's some new evidence that has come to light, and we're struggling to reconcile it with what we knew so far."

He looked at her sharply.

"New evidence? What new evidence?"

Jack applauded her strategy and took up the baton.

"We're not at liberty to say quite at this stage, sir, but it would be helpful to know if, for example, you went to Flinders Street to see if you could spot your brother on the train he had marked?"

"Well, no … of course not. It's a huge place, what are the chances of being able to find a person who doesn't want to be seen?" the man blustered.

"That's a great pity," remarked Jack. "It could perhaps have been the one real lead to finding Mr William."

Jackson looked at him with irritation. "You're making the assumption, Inspector, that he wanted to be found."

"What makes you think he didn't? And in any event, it seems clear that Mrs Jackson very much wanted him found," said Phryne. "Perhaps if more immediate action had been taken, she could have been reconciled to her loss rather more easily."

Jackson's face took on a supercilious expression. "While I have every sympathy for my sister-in-law, I think her inability to recognise the facts which are staring her in the face, simply because they happen to be unpleasant, is increasingly wearisome."

Jack decided it was time to bring the pretence to an end.

"You may find that she needs even more sympathy in the days to come, Mr Jackson."

He looked up enquiringly. "Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. Why, what has happened?"

"Because yesterday afternoon we pulled a body out of the Yarra, which was confirmed this morning to be that of the late Mr William Jackson," said the Inspector flatly.

Charles Jackson's complexion went from florid to pallid in one remarkably speedy step. His jaw dropped open, and Phryne thought his resemblance to rancid hake quite remarkable.

"Bu … but … I don't understand?"

"Nor do we, quite, Mr Jackson," remarked Jack conversationally. "Although we would very much like to know what it was that made Mr William bundle up his clothes around a rock and drop them in the river close to the point at which he went swimming. We hoped you could help us with that."

Jackson was repeatedly licking his lips now, eyes shifting wildly from Phryne to Jack and back again. Phryne decided a further nudge was needed.

"I expect Mrs Jackson will welcome your advice as to what she should do with her _controlling_ interest in the business now?" she asked silkily. "Or perhaps she will look to someone less closely associated with a strategy of which her husband vehemently disapproved?"

It was as though a balloon had been punctured.

"I didn't kill him."

The words were muttered, barely more than whispered. Hugh Collins wrote them down all the same.

"No? But it was in your interest for him to be out of the way, wasn't it, Mr Jackson?" pressed Jack.

The message was filtering through, thought Phryne; Jackson's eyes were becoming dull. He'd lost. He just hadn't yet realised quite how badly. He began to speak, haltingly at first.

"William told me he wanted to swim, but said he wanted peace and quiet so he went a little further downstream; I was sent to fetch him half an hour later, when we started getting ready to leave."

"I watched him drown. He must have got a cramp or something, because he was generally quite a strong swimmer, but I believe such things can happen."

He warmed to his story. "It was quite interesting. One always imagines that drowning people splash, and shout, and wave and so on. The reality is quite different – just a slipping away. His mouth was never quite clear of the water, so he couldn't cry out even if he'd wanted to. When he breathed, he was breathing in water. He was trying to stay upright, and he couldn't, so his hands never came out of the water. Eventually, he just … sank. And that was that. My older brother – gone."

"It was only when he'd gone that I thought of creating the story of Anna. If I could keep him alive and discredit him, you see, I would be free to do as I wished with the business. I knew that Genevieve would receive his shares, and the thought of having to try to work with a rank amateur wasn't to be borne. It suited me better to have William thought to be alive and disgraced than dead and beatified – my saintly brother. So I planted the letters in his office, and the train timetables, and the scented scarf under his coat."

He was running out of story, and out of steam. "And then I just went on as before."

"Well," said Phryne brightly, "at least there's one good thing – you won't have to work with Mrs Jackson."

He looked at her blankly. "What do you mean? Of course I will. She's the major shareholder. She'll have to sign everything, and probably have to have them all explained to her over and over again." He groaned at the thought.

"No, sir," said Jack. "She has expressed the intention of selling the controlling shareholding to a third party, to allow the business to be run as her husband would have wished."

Jackson's face darkened. "The stupid, stupid woman! She can't do anything of the sort."

"Oh, but she can, Mr Jackson," smiled Phryne. "And in fact, now that she's stated her firm intention to do so, I think the police would be very interested to know if, for whatever reason, her intentions did not end up being fulfilled. Don't you, Inspector?"

Jack agreed that he would be following the process with extraordinary interest.

"What business is it of yours?" asked Jackson nastily. "There's no law been broken."

"No," agreed Jack, "there hasn't. But it's important that Mrs Jackson is aware of the role you played in her husband's demise, so Miss Fisher will be passing that along, won't you, Miss Fisher?"

Miss Fisher confirmed that she would fulfil the task with clinical efficiency. Gabriel armed with a soprano cornet was not more eager to break the glad news.

"I understand," continued Jack, "that Mrs Jackson expects to get a good price for her shares in the company. You never know, you might be able to get the same price for yours. If you ask the buyer very nicely," he added. Phryne hadn't seen him sneer terribly often, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

"Can I go now?" asked Jackson, exasperated. "Have you _quite_ finished?"

"Of course," said Jack, in surprised tones. "I'm sorry, I thought you realised you could leave at any time."

Jackson slapped his hands on the desk and pushed his chair back noisily. Collins stood back hastily as the door was snatched open.

"Oh, one more thing, Mr Jackson?" called Jack politely as the man prepared to storm out. He glanced back with a dagger look.

"You have slightly less than a week now, to register the death. Otherwise you will face a fine of up to ten pounds."

Hugh jumped, Phryne winced but Jack merely blinked at the force with which the door was slammed.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Ten pounds."

"Hmmn?"

"Ten pounds. That's all it's going to cost Charles Jackson to watch his brother die and do nothing about it."

Jack divined, through what had become quite cloudy consciousness, that he was not going to be allowed to fall asleep quite yet. He shifted up the bed slightly, stretched out an arm, and the most deliciously exciting lady detective in the world crawled into his embrace.

Sleeplessness had its compensations.

"The law's an ass, Jack."

"You may have mentioned that in the past."

Comfortable silence as the official and unofficial law enforcement agents there present contemplated the asinine qualities of the law.

"What if he couldn't swim, though?" asked the official.

"Who? Oh. He could have found a branch or something. If he'd wanted to."

"Phryne?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"Please don't make me have to arrest people for not having tried hard enough to stop someone dying."

Short pause while the unofficial law enforcement agent apologised to the official one for being a bit unreasonable.

"But still …"

Enough was becoming enough.

"Phryne, today we saw a lower life form survive. Hopefully he won't get the chance to procreate – the fact that he's got to the advanced age he has …"

"Thirty-five, according to Miss Battersby's evidence to Dot."

"Good God, really? He needs to exercise more. Anyway, he's so far failed to attract a soul-mate, and he's just lost his sole remaining attractive quality – I mean his money – so there's a good chance that the current Charles Jackson will be the last Charles Jackson."

Further contemplative silence.

"How do you know?"

"How do I know what?"

"That his money was Charles' only attractive quality?"

Well, that was astonishing. She could detect a hard stare from Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson even in pitch darkness.

Giggling in response was almost certainly a mistake, too.

On the other hand, both the official and the unofficial law enforcement agents appeared to agree that sleep was overrated.


End file.
